


Lost in Translation

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (TV 2020)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Language Barrier, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29948769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: An arranged marriage to Count Orlo seems like it might be tolerable, until the language barrier and the cruelty of the court make themselves known.
Relationships: Count Orlo / Reader, Count Orlo x Reader, F!Reader - Relationship
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Lost in Translation

_I usually try to keep a reader pretty vague in these fics, but I’ve made some compromises here. Mainly: female reader, who speaks English and German, but not Russian, reader is younger than Orlo. I’ve left the country of origin open, but thought I’d add those caveats_ _😊_

For years, you had made a noble attempt to pretend this day would never come. That your arranged marriage would forever be pushed back. That had certainly happened before. You had been due to wed another man in the Court of Russia who had met an unpleasant end after crossing their Emperor. A third-born prince who wed another instead. An older man from your home country who had failed to agree upon a suitable dowry. In some, deep part of your mind you had wanted the same fate to befall the man you were due to marry come the Spring.

He would fail to prove suitable, have some injury befall him, simply change his mind.

The thought of leaving your home forever to marry a stranger was terrifying, even if you knew it was a common reality. But this match, excellent politically, had come to fruition. 

He was a Count. A reputable one at that. The marriage represented a social step up, even allowing for the differing nobility systems between your countries. He was a brilliant politician and a well-read man, you had been told.

You tried to let that comfort you.

Marriage had to come eventually, your mother had reassured you, as she helped you into a carriage. A Count of such stature was, at least, a strong option for your family. Regardless of how you felt about the match.

The rest of your household had watched with grim faces as they bid you goodbye.

It was the best thing you could do to help the tumultuous situation back home, you had been promised.

You were doing your duty, you had been told.

With each minute of your journey you could only think of the time it would take to return home – how you were being taken so far from your home that it would prove near impossible to travel back for frivolous reasons. Perhaps your husband might permit a journey back in the event of a funeral, or the birth of a niece or nephew.

Perhaps he wouldn’t.

The man was older than you, strangely old to be unmarried. Or so the maids had gossiped. He was a formidable diplomat in a way which likely made him a difficult man, they had speculated, and you could not help picturing the creature who might be awaiting you at the end of the aisle.

Would he be cruel? Ignore you? Would he be desperate for an heir? Or so busy with other members of the palace that he had no interest in consummating your marriage at all?

Arranged marriages may have been customary for people like you, but every young romantic secretly wished to avoid it. You had always hoped to meet your own _Prince Charming_ , the two of you falling for one another so soundly that he insisted upon being allowed to marry you. In your dreams, you had longed for the moment such a man would whisk you away to a beautiful castle, to a life of adoration and comfort and mutual respect.

Perhaps even of unconditional love, if such a thing even existed.

You held a hand to the side of the carriage to brace yourself as the road grew suddenly bumpy, trying not to be jostled until the wheels found smoother ground again. Outside you could hear the coachman and his boy, chattering and clicking to the horses. The sound of the road beneath you muffled their voices.

From your book, you pulled a well-worn set of papers.

“Count Orlo,” you tried the words on your tongue, “Count Orlo.”

His last letter, making arrangements for your travel, had come written in a curious of lines and curls which meant nothing to you. Enclosed with it was a translation of his words, printed plainly in unemotive English by another hand. Even as you had read the translation over and over, you looked for meaning in the original. You had kept it. At the end of it, beneath a flourishing signature you caught yourself staring at, he had written his own surname, spelt the letters out in phonetic English so you might attempt to pronounce it.

You had been practising since, trying to imagine how someone Russian might pronounce it without having ever _heard_ the accent – let alone the language.

Would it be much different to your own?

As you crossed land and sea you noted the air cooling, your body aching from the journey. Yet you constantly found yourself unable to step outside for fear of realising just how far from home you were, the strange biomes you passed only serving to make you anxious.

In the books you attempted to read on the journey you kept that sole letter you had from your suitor, using it as a bookmark and reading it each time you opened the book to read further.

 _“I have made every attempt to ensure your comfort here, and I await making your acquaintance eagerly,_ ” part of the translation read.

It was a sentence you had let your eyes drift across over and over again.

You wondered how those words had sounded to him when he wrote them. If they even had the same intent as the words you read now, if perhaps there was a way to communicate the subtleties of sarcasm or irritation in Russian which was not translated in the version you read.

Though those words seemed charming, you knew not to read anything into them when their meanings had been mangled through a language barrier by an uncaring stranger.

Until you set foot in St. Petersberg, you would have no idea what kind of man you were to marry for the rest of your life.

*

Too soon, the streets of St. Petersberg were outside the carriage windows. And then they disappeared again, a well-paved road leading into thick forest, making you frown as a busy stream of fine carriages passed you the other way.

The dense trees seemed to be symbolic of the country itself, tall and proud and terrifying as they blocked the sunlight from the road and seemed to reach into the sky forever in their bid to escape the ground.

There was not a single pothole, the road perfectly laid, as you moved to attempt to freshen up your appearance. Books stacked neatly to be removed by a footman, you had nothing to do but watch as the traffic grew denser and denser, the trees thinning.

Then opening up.

Vast lawns stretched ahead of you, brightly coloured figures milling around in the midmorning sun, wandering across the manicured grass with the intent-less pace of nobility.

Your breath was taken away as a building came into view, as tall as the forest you had escaped from and twice as intimidating. The crunch of the horses’ shoes became louder on the gravel you drove on to, the carriage moving slower, as the huge palace loomed into view.

There was one name which had been drilled into you before you arrived, _Emperor Peter_. His palace was to be your new home, and he was not a man to be crossed. You could see why he intimated so much now, as you gazed up at the extravagance of his stronghold.

Too soon, the carriage door was open and you were offered a hand to step down to Russian soil. The building stretched up above you, seeming to stare down in judgement with a thousand glassy eyes.

As you blinked at the cool, bright sun, you noticed a man waiting nervously for you. Your chauffeur whispered to him, and a small greeting left his mouth.

It was in a language you could not understand.

Your heart seemed to jump to your mouth as he reached to take your hand, pressing it to his lips in a movement as gentlemanly as you had ever seen. In the fraction of a second his eyes were closed, you tried to catch your breath.

Unsure what to say, you let him drop your hand and straighten back to standing, his eyes searching your face in something blessedly unlike an inspection of your features. Instead, it seemed as though he was simply taking you in.

The wind was bitter, and you wrung your hands at the loss of your suitor’s body heat. You couldn’t conceal a full-body shudder as a howl of viscous cold blew through the grounds. The man took a step back, welcoming you into the warmth of the open palace doors. You followed, feeling as though you were watching yourself from a distance rather than experiencing your own body.

He was handsome, you noted. Clean-shaven and well dressed, with a significant effort put into his clothes and hair. He was not the old man you had feared, either. In fact, you found yourself quite delighted at the idea of being seen by his side.

Still, you refrained from letting your guard down. You had no idea of anything about him. He could be a monster, though none of his demeanour so far seemed to suggest so.

 _Say something,_ your mind screamed to you. 

“The weather is rather bitter here,” you smiled, uncomfortable as the man seemed to nervously pace, rocking back and forth on his feet as he regarded your shivering form.

A frown creased his brow.

“It is cold,” you clarified, sounding the words out in an attempt to make it easier for him to follow.

Perhaps the language barrier would be worse than you had feared. Ignorantly, you had hoped that perhaps he would speak some English. Or that your languages might be similar. He looked at you wide-eyed, lips moving silently as he tried to understand you.

“Co-ld,” he repeated back to you, the syllables broken in the way a non-native speaker might dissect them for understanding.

You rubbed your hands on your own shoulders, a mime of the word, and he nodded frantically.

“Snow!” he stumbled, in English, the shape of the word strange on his tongue.

It wasn’t snowing, but you were pleased he had understood your meaning. You nodded, internally devasted at the realisation that the two of you could barely understand one another.

Suddenly an entire, long marriage of devastating isolation from other speakers of your own language, seemed to stretch before your eyes. He did not speak English. Of course he did not, you cursed yourself. This was Russia. And you did not speak a single word of Russian.

Around you, the conversations sounded like gibberish, the international tone and body-language of gossip the only indicator of what those in finery were saying.

“German?” you tried, moving to allow a nobleman to pass through the door you were blocking, wincing at your own awkwardness.

The Count cocked his head.

“Do you speak German?” you repeated, this time in German, sounding the words out slowly.

You knew, even from his first wince at your first word, he did not understand anything you were saying. You sighed and the Count grimaced in agreement. That, he could comprehend.

Around you the building seemed like a breathing organism, its people flowing from room to room, constant noise and sound and smells threatening to overtake your senses.

Even mere feet from the unfamiliar man you were engaged to, you found your attention drifting as the palace became overwhelming. He surged forward to steady you as a stony-faced nobleman barged into you, concerned words spilling from his lips in a language you didn’t understand. He snapped at the man, after you were stable, and you saw him scurry away with a frown.

With wide eyes you watched the Count as he guided you to a safer spot before dropping your elbow. At least he was handsome. And somewhat younger than you had been led to believe, not so elderly or callous as suitors your friends had been forced to wed.

He curiously had none of the politician’s bite that you had been made afraid of – in fact, you might have believed him to have no power at all if it were not for the arrangement of your betrothal to him. And the way he had sent a man twice his size packing, merely for knocking into you.

He just seemed too _nice_. He was smaller than a lot of men in the palace, dressed well, with no air of arrogance about him as he tried to welcome you without words.

“The room,” he sounded out.

His English was unnatural, the syllables slipping against one another awkwardly, but you smiled dumbly as you recognised the words. He held one hand outstretched, and then snatched it awkwardly away just as you reached for it. You nodded instead, closing your empty hand at his subtle rejection.

The Count watched over his shoulder, taking a few cautious steps, before seeming satisfied you were following. You loathed that you could not speak to one another, could not joke or lighten the mood, as you tried to understand his jittery body language.

He led you in a confusing attempt at being gentlemanly, lacking the words to direct you, but refusing to be ungentlemanly enough to allow you to walk behind him. Side by side, slowly, you reached an overside pair of doors which he clumsily held open for you.

You blinked in surprise, suddenly realising where you were. It was not merely his room, it was also your room. The room you would share with him. _For as long as you both shall live._

As he bustled behind you, moving things in a frantic attempt to tidy the already-spotless space, you remembered to close your mouth.

At one end of the large space was a grand four-poster, deep red drapes tied back around it, fine sheets tucked in tightly. Dark wood accented by golden candle-holders betrayed the opulence of the space – but most striking were the bookshelves. Reaching the ceiling, covering an entire wall, French-style Walnut framed hundreds of books. Your elation at the space, accented with pieces of history and culture that made you increasingly fond of the man, was quickly dampened by the realisation you could not read a single one of the titles.

The windows were thrown open wide, thin white curtains fluttering in the wind, framed by heavier burgundy woollen drapes. With each new pass your eyes made of the room you noticed something new. A new painting, a framed letter, a pot of feathers or an exotic tchotchke, all told the story of a man who was more than met the eye.

You only wished you could speak to him. He seemed to be wincing as you took in the space, one hand perched on the door handle, left there from where he had closed the doors. He let you take your time orientating yourself, saying nothing as your eyes finally settled on something familiar: your luggage.

In their own strange way, the trunks were comforting. A reminder of who you were, your family name painted on the side and your possessions sat in there.

Completely out of place for the room.

Even the cream colour of the trunks seemed to clash with the very furniture around it, and your nervousness came back full force, making your stomach clench as you wondered if the Count would allow you to keep your things here.

He seemed entirely unbothered, reaching to adjust his glasses as you turned to look at him, seeming to fluster at the attention. As you opened your mouth to try and say something, you heard masculine shouts outside.

A sudden gunshot pierced the air outside, the sound ricocheting around the palace, loud enough to make you gasp and flinch. Immediately, the Count was by your side, hands hovering at your elbows as you caught your breath.

You realised you were shaking, each inhale coming as a gasp, the stress of the day coming to overwhelm you. As you turned to the Count, fearing judgement for your weakness, you saw nothing but worry in his shining eyes.

In that moment, you felt sure he begrudged the language barrier as much as you did.

He seemed to be fumbling for the little English he had learnt, before closing his eyes with a frustrated huff, pinching the bridge of his nose as he strode across to his desk.

One hand braced him against the heavy wood as his other hand flipped roughly through the pages of a book. You couldn’t help your curiosity, leaning over his shoulder.

As you glanced at the pages of his book, your heart clenched. It had the distinctive smudges of something he had written himself, words in neat Russian and shakily-formed English beside them. He glanced at you, almost embarrassed, as he flicked to the page he wanted.

He made some attempt at pronunciation, but you found it easier to follow the point of his ink-stained index finger.

“ _Safe_.”

Next to a scribble of Russian, was the word _safe_.

You read it aloud, and he copied you, his eyes childishly-wide as he looked for your reassurance.

You nodded.

“Yes,” you told him, words weak as you tried to force them past your lips without crying, “safe.”

You weren’t sure if his book helped him understand your spoken words especially well, but you tried anyway.

“Thank you.”

It took him a second, but with a gulp and a head tilt, he understood you.

As he looked at you from his hunched position over the desk, hours and hours of translation work in front of him, you wondered what he had expected of you. If he was disappointed that you spoke none of his language, disappointed by some physical aspect of you, or by your strangeness whilst taking in the overwhelming nature of the palace. Did he even want a bride? Had he rejected the notion of an arranged political marriage as vehemently as you did?

Were you an intruder here? In his space?

The two of you stood for a moment, both silent as you regarded one another. Another shout outside made you jump, shoes shuffling against the carpet. It seemed to prompt the Count into action. He was rifling through the book again.

“Food?” he tried, repeating himself until you understood his meaning. His Russian accent was strong, his hands flailing as he tried to mime.

“Food?” you repeated back, and he clapped his hands in realisation, repeating the right pronunciation back to you.

“Yes, please,” you smiled.

With a timid duck of his head, he fled from the room.

*

The Count was gone for a long while, long enough for you to wander around the room, stroking a hand across the soft quilt of the bed, touching the spines of the books, and casting an eye over the translation guide Orlo had put together for himself.

It was an incredible amount of effort, you realised, to have filled almost an entire book to construct his own dictionary. It gave you hope for the type of a man who was willing to put that much effort into understanding a woman he had never met.

After a quick lap of the room you caught yourself in the mirror, realising how exhausted you looked from travel. You turned to your luggage, hoping for time to change before Count Orlo returned.

No luck. As you crouched at your open trunk, you heard the door open, glancing up nervously before sighing in relief as you realised it was just the Count. He greeted you with a smile, nodding.

He watched you curiously as you rummaged through your tightly-packed luggage for a change of clothes, desperate to change from the journey. Your travel clothes were sorely in need of a wash. In truth, you had hoped to change into something nicer before you were introduced to your betrothed.

As you found a gown to change into, the Count stepped backwards and dropped his curious gaze, realising you intended to change.

He called a word, and you flinched at the sudden volume of his soft voice, surprised to hear footsteps come running. A serf appeared, a woman who greeted you with a tight smile, and you looked to Orlo with a furrowed brow. He gave you a nod, his eyes kind, as he left the room.

It was fast, to change and quickly fix your appearance with the help of a serf. Although she did not speak a word to you – though you tried both English and German – she was kind as she fastened and unfastened your laces, and you tried to find some reassurance in the looks she gave you.

Did she think the Count a good man, you wondered? She seemed unafraid and comfortable in his rooms, in a way you did not expect from serfs in this place. You tried to consider it a good sign.

The moment the serf left he returned, slipping through the door and admiring your new dress with a gentle nod. There was a sincere appreciation in his eyes that threatened to make you blush.

For the first time, as he crossed the room to offer you his arm, you could imagine yourself waking up beside the man.

He opened his mouth as if to say something as you watched him curiously, but then closed it. The words would not come to him, and you wished you could tell him it was _okay,_ your own vocabulary in his mother tongue painfully limited.

He reached for a closed trunk, looking to you for permission before he opened it.

There was a slight tremble in his hands, and you felt a rush of appreciation at his sheer _gentleness_. You wished you could apologise to him for the man who had appeared in your nightmares, sharing his name but not his demeanour, brutish and cruel where the Count seemed timid and polite.

Where his fingers faltered on the latch, you flipped the trunk open, your hand accidentally brushing his. You looked away very intentionally as you felt the warmth of his skin, instead turning to the contents of the trunk.

You were glad it was devoid of anything embarrassing, your undergarments blessedly packed in the box below. Instead he was faced with the spines of dozens of books. The titles were all well-thumbed, favourites of yours which you could not bear to part with. You had hoped you might be able to get more books in Russia, once you arrived, however the greatness of the language barrier was beginning to impress on you.

These might be the only books you could read for a very long time, and you were glad you had persuaded your driver to bring them all this way.

The Count, for his part, was reading the spines in fascination. He might not recognise the language, but he seemed to have an appreciation for the beauty of the tomes.

Certainly, if his own décor was anything to go by, he was an avid reader himself. As his fingers ran along the books you had brought, tightly packed together to survive the journey, you found yourself strangely embarrassed by the language of the books.

He seemed unaffected, a genuine curiosity on his face as he looked for your permission to pull one from the trunk. His fingers teased the spine as his eyes met yours, seeking your gentle nod before taking the book and opening it.

Unreading, he scanned the words in front of him. You recognised it as a beloved novel, one so well read you could recite the passage he followed off by heart.

With a smile to you, he turned the pages, seeming to just admire the shapes of the words.

He finally closed the book, passing it back to you, and you tried to force the book back into its place in the trunk. It was a squeeze, and you winced as Orlo watched you struggle for a moment before attempting to still your hands.

Suddenly he was on his feet, rushing to the huge walnut bookcase which spanned an entire wall, and started pulling his own books from the shelves.

You watched in confusion, as he moved a huge stack of his tomes to space on a lower, empty shelf, stacking them in the space above the existing books clumsily to clear a space.

He said something in Russian, before realising you had no understanding of his words. Instead he reached down for the book you were still struggling with. As he took it gently from you, setting it on the shelf, you finally understood his meaning.

In near-shock, you unpacked the trunk, the pair of you working together to add your beloved collection to his library. The Count displaced his own books until there was an entire shelf at your eye-level filled with your most beloved possessions: stories in a language he did not even speak.

Overcome with emotion, you crossed to his desk, reaching for the handwritten book you had seen earlier. The Count followed, watching you a little confused.

Flicking through page after page, growing increasingly frustrated as you did not find what you wanted, you felt Orlo’s eyes on you. And prayed he was not offended by your going through his personal notes.

Finally you found what you sought, turning the book to him with your finger pointing to the words you wanted.

“Thank you.”

Orlo pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he read the translation you pointed to, speaking the Russian words to himself, before looking up at you with an unhindered _beam_.

Maybe everything would be alright.

*

The food Orlo had brought during the early afternoon was barely more than snacks, hardly touched as the two of you had shared a comfortable silence, each reading your own books. You were glad for the downtime, though uneasy from being alone with a near stranger.

You were hungry by the time the Count sought out the word _dinner_ in his translation book, and you gave him a nod.

With each step he led you towards the rowdy dining hall, which seemed to be the destination for every other soul walking these halls, fear sunk its claws deep into you again.

For the first time, you spotted the man you could only assume was the Emperor, holding the attention of a few long, heavily decorated tables. The entire room was filled with outrageous finery – beautiful dresses and golden candelabras all begging for your focus as your eyes tried to take in the room.

Count Orlo exchanged a few words with the Emperor as the two of you entered, suddenly clasping your hand in his and holding it up, and you tried to smile politely as all eyes turned to the pair of you. Emperor Peter seemed to say something snide to the Count as he spared you a few words of introduction. The rest of the seated masses offered up a few weak claps. Then, you were able to dissolve somewhat into the crowd.

Your fiancé pulled out a chair for you near the head of the table, seeming to offer encouragement in his gentle pat of your shoulder, seating himself beside you just as a starter was brought out.

From here you could see most of the court, noting that your position seemed somewhat elevated over most, a handful of seats from the Emperor and the blonde woman uncomfortably positioned next to him.

You had been seated beside a nobleman who was far more engaged with his fingers under a woman’s skirt than talking to you, and you fought not to look outraged at the debauchery and inappropriateness of it all, as the woman groaned and the Emperor laughed and clapped at the scene.

When you looked away in embarrassment your eyes met the Count’s, and without language, you could see the apology in the deep brown of his irises and the irritated twitch of his lip.

He pulled your chair slightly closer to his own, and you were grateful, as an onion soup was placed before you.

Unlike the rowdy group around you, you endured the meal in silence. Subtle help with cultural things – strange cutlery customs or drinks you ought to avoid – were the only interactions you had with the Count.

Fortunately, the Lord beside you had been distracted from his woman by the arrival of a rather impressive whole Salmon.

So that was some relief.

As you finished your main course you found yourself finally beginning to relax, mentally congratulating yourself for making it through the first of a presumed lifetime of outrageous meals in a foreign country.

At least, you thought you had made it through.

The beautiful young woman from the Emperor’s side was stood in front of you, clearing her throat with an impatiently folded pair of hands. As your eyes met hers, she held out a hand to introduce herself, spouting off a string of Russian you had no hope of understanding.

With one hand under the table, you sought out the Count’s attention, only to find him deeply engaged in a conversation with the soldier beside him.

Damn it.

The woman was looking to you expectantly for an answer, but you could say nothing to appease her. Not whilst lacking a single word of Russian.

Panicked, you turned to the man beside you. In truth it was a relief to see him laughing, so engaged in a rapid conversation with someone, but you were forced to interrupt. The woman seemed increasingly offended by your panicked silence with each second that passed.

“Orlo?” you tried his name, wincing at the distinctly un-Russian sound of it, but the man himself turned immediately.

From the beam on his face, he seemed delighted you had attempted to address him at all, his hand finding yours on the table.

He made a distinctive _hum_ of questioning, before following your eye line to the woman trying to speak to you.

“Catherine!” came her name, before a string of Russian.

You breathed a sigh of relief, wishing you had the language to thank the Count for saving you from further embarrassment or offence caused.

When their short conversation lulled, you found two pairs of eyes on you.

“I do not speak Russian,” you told her, hoping your apologetic tone transcended the English language.

Her eyebrows raised, pretty face contorted in surprise as she turned to Orlo, a quick punch of Russian shot her way before she left once again. Orlo gave you a knowing glance. Then, she spoke.

For a moment you did not recognise her words, before realising with a start they were German.

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

You were sure your face betrayed how your heart soared at the recognition of understandable words, her face schooled in a sombre mask even as your features lit up in delight at familiar language. With a conspicuous look around, she leant closer to you.

“We will speak later.”

The blonde woman returned to the Emperor’s side for the duration of the dessert course, but you felt your mood immeasurably lightened. The Count seemed to recognise it too, his movements a little lighter as you counted down the seconds until you could speak to someone.

Mere minutes after the Emperor stormed from the dining hall, seemingly on some form of rampage, the Count gently guided you to a side room. The German-speaker was there, and she greeted you kindly the moment the door closed.

“I apologise, I try not to speak German in front of the court. It reminds them my roots are not in Russia – although my heart belongs here.”

You could not help the beam which broke out across your face, even as your fiancé watched with bemusement, and you found yourself subconsciously moving towards the blonde woman.

“I am so glad to have someone to speak to! What’s your name?” you asked her, feeling immediately at ease, elated to see your joy at the conversation mirrored in her body language.

“Catherine. I am the Empress.”

With a glance to your fiancé, you stumbled on the spot, taking an awkward curtsey as you realised exactly who you were speaking to. Was this some sick joke, you wondered, to get you in trouble before you had even unpacked?

“I had no idea,” you apologised, “I apologise for my rudeness, your majesty.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something in Russian to Orlo. He had the nerve to look embarrassed, at least, and you felt your shame slightly diminished.

“Nonsense. You have done nothing rude,” she smiled, “Besides, I married into this madness. Just as you will.”

Unwilling to make a fool of yourself – or get yourself executed – you silently nodded.

“It is strange, to hear my native tongue so far from home,” she mused, cocking her head and glancing around the room.

You let yourself relax a little, sensing no true offence in her tone or body language.

“I am so glad to hear someone I can understand,” you confessed, “I feel so stupid, to not speak the language.”

She looked at you pityingly, and you ducked your head under her gaze.

“It is not your fault. The language is… challenging, to say the least.”

“I confess, it all sounds like gibberish to me. At the moment.”

You found yourself elated as the Empress laughed.

“I remember that. As a child, I just nodded when people spoke to me.”

It was your turn to laugh. Beside you, Orlo had a smile on his face as he made some quip in Russian to Catherine. The Empress threw her head back in laughter, before quickly letting you in on the joke.

“Orlo is rather concerned we are getting along so well.”

You gave a nervous laugh, glancing at the man as Catherine linked her arm around yours.

“I think he should be worried,” she told you, a theatrical stage-whisper in your ear, although Orlo could not understand her, “I shall finally have a friend who understands me without the burden of translation slowing my thoughts.”

Even in her arrogance, you liked Catherine. How could you not, when someone as powerful as an Empress was treating you like an old friend on your first encounter? She led you from the room, muttering about a tour of the palace, as Count Orlo trailed behind you.

As Catherine explained the layout and rhythm of the hallways, you tried to file every piece of information away, catching yourself laughing at her glib comments – free to gossip and make jabs whilst those around her could not understand her words. For the first time since disembarking your carriage, you felt on even footing with the strangers milling around these hallways. Able to speak, you could be yourself a little more. Though you regretted that it was impossible to truly speak to your husband-to-be.

Abruptly, you caught yourself interrupting the Empress midway through a tale about some curiosity, a strange painting hung in the hallway which she had plenty to talk on.

“Catherine – ”

“Yes?”

Even as an Empress, she seemed unbothered by your rudeness. Perhaps just speaking to someone else from her home country, she felt the Russian role she held stripped away.

You glanced at Orlo, stood beside you staring at his hands as the pair of you spoke in German, patient and yet left out.

“Would you be kind enough to translate some things to Russian for me? For Count Orlo?”

“Of course.”

The Empress seemed to understand. She gave a curt nod, pushing a door open to enter a parlour. The few serfs cleaning and resting in there quickly scattered, leaving the three of you alone. Orlo closed the door behind you, guiding you to sit on the chaise as if you were something delicate, a gentlemanly charm to the way he offered his aid even as you crouched to sit.

Catherine sat beside you, smiling a little as Orlo joined your side at a respectful distance. He was looking curiously between yourself and Catherine, his nervousness given away by the jerky movement of his head as his eyes flickered from woman to woman.

“What would you like me to say to him?” Catherine asked gently, her tone more subdued than you had heard it thus far.

Rather than excitable, bordering on bragging, she sounded serious. You wondered how long ago she had been in your shoes, marrying a stranger in a foreign land. From the haunted look behind her eyes, the memory was fresh.

“I wonder if you could… thank him. For his kindness. And apologise that I do not speak the language, I feel so stupid, that I did not learn before arriving but I could not find any instruction I should learn Russian – and I realise I ought to have known but it simply did not cross my mind. The marriage was all so last minute and I only saw his letter days before I left and – ”

Sensing the panic, as it rose in your throat and leached into your words, Catherine stopped your words with a single politely raised finger.

For a moment she seemed ready to answer back to you, to speak German and comment on the contents of your message for your husband-to-be. Then she simply turned her head a few degrees and addressed Orlo.

You had nothing but trust to prove she had translated for you directly, and yet the widening of the Count’s eyes told you she must have made a valiant effort at repeating your ramblings. His hand hovered in the neutral space between your hand on the chaise and his thigh, undecided as to whether he ought to offer you comfort or respect the boundary of space which still existed between you.

He chose the latter. Strangely, you wished he hadn’t.

Orlo was replying, a stream of carefully considered Russian which Catherine nodded at, a gentle smile on her lips. Then, she turned back to you.

“He says you could not possibly have known he would not speak English or German, and that he is trying to learn. He also says that he has arranged an adjacent room for you, in the event that you are not comfortable sharing with him.”

She seemed to have more to say, a personal comment to add, but Orlo had already interrupted her, cramming in more sentiments he wished to have translated. In all your time with him, you were yet to see him so talkative, desperate to share his thoughts with you. Your heart ached as you realised how much he was unable to tell you.

“He also says he is sorry you have met under these circumstances. And that, should you ever need anything, write it. He is better at translating the written word.”

“He also says that you are pretty, and it is nice to meet you.”

She rolled her eyes, but you shot the man in question a smile. He beamed back.

There was a playfulness in her words which indicated the Empress was mocking Orlo’s desperation to speak to you, but you could not join her in her ridicule. You found yourself truly touched by the lengths he seemed willing to go to in order to secure your comfort with him.

There were very few noblemen who would do that for a bride from a political marriage, you knew. Catherine continued to speak in the same tone, perhaps to prevent Orlo’s suspicion, but her words were suddenly her own.

“He is a sweet one, you know,” she confided, “he has been trying to learn English for weeks. Now I wish I had known to teach him German. You will be safe with him. Ask for anything in the world, and he will provide it. For all his flaws, he is a good man. A true romantic, too. I am glad he seems to have been lucky enough to have a wife who will not abuse that.”

Blinking tears from your eyes, you nodded. Catherine reached out her hands for you, and you took them, a silent promise of friendship which you were surprised by the speed of.

“I am here. If you ever need anything. I know how hard it is, to not understand what is happening around you.”

You nodded mutely, your voice choked by how touching her kindness was after so many weeks of worry, and a day of confusion and fear that you might never be properly understood again.

“Thank you,” you whispered, “and please tell the Count thank you. Most – most sincerely.”

With a kindly smile, almost sisterly in how she seemed to both patronise and care for you, Catherine released your hands and began speaking quick Russian to Orlo.

Now relieved from understanding the conversation, you slumped a little against the arm of the chair, concealing a yawn as the late hour and long day caught up with you.

Without being in a proper bed for weeks, having taken in an entirely new country and life over the course of the day, your body was begging you for rest. You forced your drooping eyelids to stay open as Catherine and Orlo spoke, noting the way both of them shot you glances as a heavily-Russian-accented version of your name cropped up in their conversation.

There was a gentle smile on Orlo’s lips, and you found your heart jumping at the very sight of it, your own expression subconsciously returning his look, lazily and slightly as your lips curled up.

He had started to look at you more, as their words grew faster, and you let your eyes slip closed.

It felt like seconds had passed, but from the laughter in Catherine’s words, you realised you had fallen completely asleep. Your feet had slipped free of your shoes, your face pressed against the arm of the chaise, and the hand on your shoulder was accompanied by the light voice of Catherine.

“As I have just told Orlo, I think you ought to get to bed. You have had a long day.”

Her smile was tinged with amusement as her face slowly came into focus, and as you turned to see Orlo’s face, you noted the concern on his face. He said something to Catherine, and you saw as she laughed and shook her head.

He said something again, more insistent, and the Empress rolled her eyes.

“He wants me to apologise for keeping you up so late.”

Against your better judgement you looked into his wide, worried eyes, catching yourself truly touched by his apologetic nervousness. And the way he was, hours after meeting you, already trying to look after you.

“Tell him not to worry,” you muttered, your voice a little rough. How long had you been asleep?

As Catherine began to speak, you tagged on:

“And thank you!”

She translated with an entertained glance to you, before rising to her feet.

“He says not to worry. And I need to go.”

You wondered if she truly had to leave, or if she had merely grown tired of the two of you using her as a translator.

“Thank you,” you called after her, watching the rise of her eyebrows as Orlo seemed to speak at the same time.

“You are welcome,” she replied, first in German, and then in English, “Good luck.”

With that she was gone, and you were following Orlo back to his rooms.

*

True to his word, translated through Catherine, there was a small room conjoined to his which contained a bed, and your clothing trunks had been dragged through there at Orlo’s request.

With a tired smile, which you hoped conveyed your thankfulness, you had closed the door between your rooms and near-fallen into bed.

The next morning arrived quickly, the sun risen as a shouting group in the forest outside awoke you. You jumped at the presence of a stranger in your room, before recognising the serf as the woman who had helped you change the day before.

“Hello,” you tried, wincing at the realisation she could not understand you.

Following her nervous glance to the tub in front of her, you realised she had drawn you a bath.

Wordlessly she undid your corset, and you held it to your chest as she seemed to hover for a moment, unsure of what to do. With a polite nod and a dismissive hand, you hoped you encouraged her to leave for the evening.

Barely five minutes after sinking into the hot water of the bath, you pulled yourself out and crawled into bed.

*

The dawn brought a little more optimism about your time at the palace.

Your husband-to-be appeared both polite and wealthy. There was at least one person here who you could understand. And, as you gazed out the window whilst your serf dressed you, the palace was beautiful.

If a little rambunctious.

You would have to get used to the startling _bang_ of gunshots.

As your maid left and you prepared to leave the sub-room to greet the day, you took a deep breath. This was manageable.

Even more so when you saw the Count sat at his desk, glasses removed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, enraptured by the page in front of him and deep in thought.

You let yourself slightly knock against the wood of the door, alerting him to your presence, and the man smiled to you with all the happiness you might have expected from a true friend.

He cleared his throat and stood as though about to give a speech, before two recognisable words left his lips.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning!” you returned, unable to resist a smile.

The Count nodded his head, happiness creeping across his own features.

Then, he offered you a less recognisable pair of words. After a few tries, you realised it was a translation, and timidly tried to copy him.

He gave you a pleased applause as you finally repeated the words back correctly, accompanied by yet another “good morning!” and you could not help your optimism at the tiny piece of progress.

Your first Russian. Taught by a willing teacher, who seemed to have all the patience in the world for you.

Certainly, things could be worse.

*

As the day wore on, you cursed your own optimism. Of course, things could be worse.

Of course, they got worse.

It seemed as though every person you encountered wanted to speak to you, and that your future husband was far too busy to chaperone you everywhere. It was agony, to be treated as though you were stupid or rude simply because you had never had the change to learn a single iota of Russian.

Worst of all, you could barely pronounce your own fiancé’s name.

He joined you for lunch, finding you in his rooms with your head perched on your hands, a faraway look in your eyes as you lamented an entire morning spent in the agony of navigating the seemingly-brutal palace social circles without language.

All day you had sought out the click of his shoes, or the bright yellow curls of the Empress’ hair, and been disappointed each time it was merely another of the palace’s endless parade of strangers.

He joined you at the small table in the corner of the room, the two of you some distance apart, his fingers tapping arrhythmically against the tablecloth. As food was brought in he seemed to remain lost in thought, sparing you an occasional moment of attention as he stared out of the window.

Suddenly reminded of your earlier discomfort at being unable to pronounce his name, inspiration struck you.

You pulled his letter from the pocket it was stashed in, and he seemed surprised to see it, meeting your eyes with some meaning you found impossible to understand.

Ignoring his surprise, you skipped the English translation to read his original hand, finding where he had written his name. Attempting to remember what he had responded to yesterday at dinner, you sounded it out.

“Count Orlo.”

He nodded in recognition.

You shook your head.

Repeating yourself, you pushed your finger along his writing, trying to make him understand. With a subtle gasp of understanding, he smiled sweetly.

And corrected your pronunciation.

It had been miles off, and you felt shame build hot in you as he had you repeat the name back to you. First ‘Count’, a half-dozen times until you mastered the shape of the Slavic letters, before moving onto his surname.

The realisation you could not even say his name right made you want to sink into the plush carpet of his room. He saw it, as your voice shook across ‘Orlo’, a clear frustration in him as he fumbled for English words and reached for your hand in comfort.

It seemed to take him relatively less time to learn your name, a fact which only made your shame build.

You ate in silence, refusing to look up from your plate and cursing your overwhelmed memory for struggling to recall the perfect pronunciation.

Slowly Orlo’s hand crept across the table, covering yours. As you looked up at him, the shining in his eyes made you want to sob.

“Thank you.”

He struggled through the phrase, but that seemed to only amplify the meaning, making your lip tremble in an appreciative nod.

“Thank you,” you repeated back to him, watching as he mouthed the words to memorise how you had said them.

You forced another mouthful of quiche into your mouth before you could sob with frustration and confusion at it all.

*

As Orlo bid you an apologetic and poorly-pronounced “goodbye”, you had the intent of spending the afternoon reading – however your own nervousness quickly derailed those plans. You were unable to focus on the words in front of you.

You had even borrowed Orlo’s translation book for a little while, before conceding that reading the words in his script gave you very little intuition on how to pronounce them.

It was hopeless.

In a bid to acquaint yourself better with your new home you took another lap of the palace. Generally you tried to avoid people, not keen to endure yet another embarrassing interaction where your words were not understood by judgemental strangers.

Instead you stuck to the sidelines – the shadows of the corridors or barely-used paths through the grounds. Finally you happened upon a crowd of expensively-dressed women, and found yourself fastidiously avoiding them. Until you spotted a pale blue gown adorning and even paler woman: the Empress.

You let yourself exude some confidence as you walked closer, catching her eye over a crowd of poorly fitted wigs and champagne flutes, stumbling at little as she seemed to look past you with glazed eyes.

“Catherine!” you called, closer now, so she couldn’t possibly miss the true Germanic pronunciation of her name.

She ignored you, turning her attention to a conversation with her maid. Your heart sank.

“I wondered if you might help me learn a few words…” 

You could hear chatter around you, a few snickers as the Empress ignored you once again, barking a few words of Russian towards her serf. For just a second she looked at you with a warning frown and wide eyes. You realised your mistake, as the ladies of the court began to swarm around you, harsh words you didn’t understand growing louder.

Even as you looked at her for help, for recognition, the Empress stalked past you. You were left at the mercy of the Ladies of the court.

Perhaps this was the worst turn your day could have taken. They bodily forced you to sit with them, feigning friendship as their words almost certainly said something else. You sank into a chair with a sinking feeling in your stomach, nausea rising in your throat as fingers plucked at your unstyled hair.

And the taunting began.

*

They mocked you for hours. For things you couldn’t translate, leaving your own mind to cruelly fill in the gaps each time the conversation seemed to make all eyes turn to you. Each time you thought you might rise and sneak away, sharp nails and etiquette pinned you in place.

Until the arrival of a panting and alarmed Count Orlo, you were forced to mutely endure your role as the centre of their attention.

You recognised the tones of intimidation, if not the words. Their picking at your clothes and touching your hair, peering at your features and demanding things from you in a language you could not understand.

It was your only point of pride that you remained stoic, even as they held you from leaving him and time again, not a single tear left your reddened eyes. When the Count finally sought you out, so late into the day that the air was cooling and men were returning from their hunts, you found yourself cursing the very day you had heard the word Russia.

With an overly pleasant smile and a hand on the small of your back, Orlo had guided you away from the loudly cackling group of ladies, each taking turns to shout increasingly loud insults for the fun of mocking your inability to understand.

But you understood their intent. You had, for the past few hours, understood their mockery. And the betrayal of the only friend you had managed to make here, the only hope you had as a translator – all because she was embarrassed to be seen speaking German to you.

 _I know what they were saying,_ you wanted to snap, _how dare you treat me like I’m stupid?_

You found yourself shaking with emotion. With rage and upset and a hurt which seemed so potent and physical it felt as if your heart was threatening to rip itself apart.

Orlo gave a gentle click of his tongue, and it was enough to drive you beyond all social etiquette.

Storming ahead of him, you refused his hand on you, his calls of your name. Through unfamiliar corridors you marched back to your stupid shared room with him, slamming the door even as you knew he was mere strides behind.

Good.

Your smaller adjoining room was hardly a safe haven, but it had a locking door. Barricading yourself inside you instantly felt childish, wondered if these actions would be enough for some horrific punishment or political consequence.

And then you realised you did not care.

Fuck them all.

Outside Orlo was trying the door handle, calling your name, desperately trying to find the words for an apology. But he failed, and you had no intention of helping him learn any further.

Fuck, you wished you could shout at him.

Or at the Empress.

Or at those women, who thought you less than them just because you could not understand them.

With a dramatic huff, which you winced at the loudness of, you kicked your shoes off and clambered beneath the covers of your bed.

Your travel coat was beside the bed, a hand-me-down from your mother, and with a tremble of your lip you pulled the fabric closer to you. The itchy sting of tears, the tightness of your throat, preceded desperate sobs which violently wracked your whole body.

Outside you heard Catherine’s voice, Orlo’s frantic tone, and you pulled the quilt over your head.

You had no want to speak to either of them.

Even without a language barrier, you were not sure you could articulate the nature of your feelings in that moment. Instead you pulled the thick woollen coat closer, cherishing the worn fabric against you, familiar in its smell and in the strong memories it brought.

You had been happier, you realised, the last time you wore it. At your home and surrounded by people you loved, who knew who you were. Who you could share with, communicate with.

How long until even this smaller haven was taken from you, and you were expected to join the Count in his bed? Until you were no longer ‘new’ and you were expected to simply endure feeling like an outside? All this for a man you barely knew, whose ring you would wear as the members of the Court mocked and judged you for reasons beyond your control.

A soft knock on your door was followed by airy German.

“I apologise,” it said, and you recognised the Empress’ voice, “allow me to make up for my rudeness earlier?”

You couldn’t reply, trying to stifle your crying. Eventually, with one last try at turning the handle, she left.

Then came Orlo.

“Sorry.”

It was English, and your anger was momentarily interrupted at the tiny realisation that he was still trying.

Yet you couldn’t open the door, your tears salty on your lips, eyes puffy as you pulled the coat closer still.

As anger and embarrassment coursed through your veins, tears ached in your sore eyes, sleep finally claimed you – fully asleep and clutching your coat as if it were a lifeline.

*

You awoke at the fall of night, to hunger and the quiet movements of your maid. She had gotten in somehow, and you found yourself a little frustrated to realise that even in this small room you could not fully block the rest of the palace out.

She looked at you in the twilight, an apology in her eyes which told you she took no pleasure from trespassing. To your embarrassment you realised you were still clutching the coat, hugging it like a child. You slowly pulled it free of yourself, standing and folding it back into a half-packed trunk without saying a word.

Most of your personal items were still not unpacked, and the thought gave you a crushing sense of how unwelcome you must be here. How _new_ this all was _._

That you couldn’t hide in the shadows forever. This afternoon had taught you that.

The people here weren’t kind, as you had imagined. They weren’t welcoming and patient and keen to welcome you to the fold. They had seen your weakness and torn at you like a pack of wolves, ignoring your whimpers.

With a sigh you hunched over on the bed, feeling lightheaded and disorientated, an ache still in your bones from the journey and a pang in your stomach from missing dinner.

Only the shuffle of her feet reminded you that your maid was still there. Without the coat you shuddered, and she held out a robe for you to wrap yourself in, pulling it over your clothes. You thanked her with a silent nod, trying to bite back the tears of frustration that you could not speak to her.

A timid knock at the door made both of you startle, a shaky breath leaving the maid as she laughed at her own skittishness. You joined her in a watery smile, before the knock came again, this time accompanied by a gentle call of your name.

You had no idea how to welcome the Count in, knowing you ought to in service of maintaining a friendship with at least one person here, but with a nod your maid called for him to enter.

Eyes downcast, the timid man walked inside.

His translation book was clutched to his chest, and he pulled from it a letter, a small, tight smile on his lips as he handed over the piece of parchment.

It was nothing formal, unsealed and ripped from a long piece of notetaking paper, but it had been folded neatly nonetheless. You opened it with a curious look at the man, his eyes following your movements intently.

Confused and intrigued in equal measure, you found your hands shaking as you moved into better candlelight to read. In the mirror, you caught the bloodshot appearance of your eyes. Beside you in the mirror, the Count had the decency to avoid meeting your gaze.

By flickering candlelight you began to inspect the paper in your hands, surprised to realise it was in English. You raised your eyebrows at him for a moment, and he smiled nervously, a glint of his teeth in the light as he tried to contort his face into something more welcoming than the grimace he was managing.

You bit your lip as you inspected the neat script, surprised at the honesty of the note.

_‘I am truly glad you are here. I understand the frustrations that you are facing, and I feel the same way. I am trying to learn English, and I hope we might be able to teach one another. I will do everything in my power to make you happy here. What happened earlier was unacceptable. Catherine says she is sorry, and has spoken to the women. They will do nothing to upset you in future, under threat of the Emperor’s ire.’_

There was a gap, a single line singled out from the rest, and you traced your thumb along the words as you absorbed them.

_‘Everything will get better, I promise.’_

Beneath was his flourishing signature, although the letter had blatantly not been written by him. Yet, it sounded spoken, and you longed to hear it spoken by him.

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked back to him, and the Count finally stared back, his bottom lip worried by his teeth.

Soft footsteps told you that your maid was finally making herself scarce, leaving without a word from the Count. You wondered if she had told him you were awake, the timing was awfully convenient.

Yet you did not have the heart to see anything insidious or scheming in his worried stare, his irises almost black in the darkness of the room.

You reached for him, seeing confusion in his face until your fingers mimed for his translation book. He passed it too you, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover before letting go, and you flicked through the pages impatiently.

The words were growing familiar now, but you struggled to recall them in the moment.

The page evaded you, although you could picture it in your mind’s eye, and you closed the book, scrunching your face in thought as you tried to remember the pronunciation he had taught you.

“Thank you,” you tried, and a lazy smile crossed his features.

He nodded in understanding, in approval, and you felt your heart grow three sizes with hope.

For once he was the one following you as you crossed to the door of your temporary room, entering the main apartment with a fierce optimism overtaking you. Your confidence only increased as you noticed the plate of food set aside on Orlo’s desk, a nod confirming he had saved it for you.

Thought of you.

The chaise by his fireplace was easily big enough for two people. It _would_ seat two people, you decided. If the two of you were to wed, you could at least begin by sitting side by side, rather than with the distance both of you had kept.

It took a pat of the seat and a raise of your eyebrows to convince him, but soon the Count was sat beside you.

You set his book into your lap, taking a deep breath, before opening it to the first page.

The two of you could do this.

If it took years, page by page, you could teach one another.

You could take turns to repeat the words again and again until the pair of you could hear one another’s true voices.

As you read out the first word, a simple “yes” which the Count repeated back to you in English then Russian, you saw his own twin hope grow.

That this would work.

With time, and patience, and with dedication, you could make things work. Thousands upon thousands had before you, although rarely in circumstances so bizarre, and Count Orlo had already begun the groundwork of a marriage you could find yourself content within.

With each word repeated back to each other you grew more sure of his intention, of your eventual happiness here.

“Yes,” he repeated, smiling as you nodded your approval.

“Yes,” the Russian syllable left your lips.

Orlo’s hand found yours in excitement.

*

There was a certain pride in your chest as you made it through your wedding vows, the Russian strange but coherent on your tongue as the familiar words flowed from you. With mere days to prepare, you had managed to achieve something which had once felt impossible.

You had not forgotten the words. You had not stuttered or run or cried. You had done what needed to be done for your family and for your home. Orlo, for his part, watched you speak with such adoration you could almost imagine that he had _wanted_ to marry you, as the marriage was arranged all those months ago.

The way he had held you the night before told you that he did want to marry you now.

He rocked a little on his heels, seeming as nervous as when you first met him, the shimmer of tears in his dark eyes as you finished your vows.

The priest was speaking, but you had very little idea what was being said. The scant audience seemed to be paying attention, and yet you could barely stand to look at them. Rings were being found, papers laid out behind you, and Orlo was clearing his throat to speak.

You felt tears jump to your own eyes, as you realised you could understand his vows. He had memorised them in English.


End file.
